


Skin

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-21
Updated: 2005-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Skin

_This isn't right._

You're sweaty, the blood pounding in your head your heart your neck every part of you, throbbing in your groin. You want and you need, you're hungry, and everything is heat and salt. Everything is skin.

 _Frak what's right, this isn't real._

He pushes you down to your knees, hands like lead weights on your shoulders, and you fight every inch but you go because he's solid he's heavy he's real against you and that means that you're alive.

 _But this isn't a dream._

He's forcing your head to where he wants it and honor says you fight, the rules say you fight, but there are no rules here. Rules are the uniform, the cage, the shell you build around your skin, and here they've stripped the uniform away, peeled back the shell and exposed the man. Flesh and blood and bone.

 _This doesn't feel good._

You attacked them and they put you down, solidly, leaving blood on the floor. There's blood on your face, too, from the split lip and cut forehead; you can taste it, a copper sting on your tongue. Copper conducts electricity, so that must be this buzzing in your head, the charge running through your veins. He's lighting you up from inside.

 _But this doesn't feel wrong._

Your hands are tied in front of you, which is stupid and won't work, won't keep you from attacking him if you want to. His followers didn't like it; they wanted to tie you up right before they left you here alone with him. Or better- first they wanted to break you.

 _He wants to do that himself._

Maybe he can- no shell, no uniform, no armor, only salt and heat and skin. He's pushing and you're giving in, just a bit slower than he'd like, a mask of resistance he wants so that he can have his victory, so he can break a god in his hands. Let him have it.

 _I broke a hundred years ago._

Playing at strength is getting between you and want, you and need, you and your hunger for something that lives outside your head. Something that burns, that sweats and bleeds. You give in all at once, capitulation without reservation, surrender without terms. When you open your mouth and take him in you can taste it, on his skin with the salt, his surprise at how your defenses fell. He thought it would take pain to break you. He thought it would take time.

 _Time is an illusion; what's the difference between 33 minutes and eternity?_

His hands are on your head and he's talking, still and always _talking_ , using his words to draw open minds down into his hall of mirrors. You swallow him down harder, make him disappear, because this isn't about that. This isn't about his words, his truths and his lies, and if your mind is open, it's because you want to get out of it for a while.

 _Get me out of my head- tear me apart if you have to but give me something real- and whoever said we ought to be afraid of pain?_

He's tugging your head back, slipping free, and you could kill him then, for stepping away and leaving you alone again. Blood's still pounding, sweat's still dripping, and you want you need you're hungry.

 _Frak me or fight me, but don't leave me here and expect that the rules are still in place._

He moves close again, he's pushing you down to the deck, and you let him, you ride the fall and even clutch at him with your bound hands to drag him with you. And you've surprised him again- he never had a dream in the world that you would give in without a fight.

 _But the world ended._

Galactica is the world now, and this is not Galactica: this is an underworld, an Otherworld, a step to the left of heaven and hell. The rules got left behind with ranks and uniforms, with politics, with iron bars and weapons and reports filed in triplicate. With witnesses. With reality.

 _This isn't real._

He's pressed against you, mouth and hands scrambling over your body, and you don't fight. You meet his demands with your own, and they're simpler, as simple as life. Blood. Sweat. Heat and salt. Skin.

 _This is the only thing that's real._

It'll be over in a minute; he'll come and you'll come and the want need hunger will break. Blood and sweat will cool and slow; you'll crawl back into your uniform and pin your pride in place, let the rules and morals and bars of reality fall into form around you. You'll wipe the blood off your face and look at him and make weapons out of insubstantial words like _justice_ and _democracy_ and _law_.

And the salt will linger on your skin.  



End file.
